Free Let It Burn by Steve Hamilton

body was half sitting, half lying against the wall, the neck at an unnatural angle.
    It was a woman. Her eyes were open. She was staring right at me from the other side of death.
    I remembered how to breathe. I remembered how to speak as I keyed the radio on my shoulder.
    “Code three, code three,” I said. “This is Unit Forty-one at Michigan Central Station. I have a one-eight-seven here. All nearby units respond.”
    A moment of crackling radio silence. Then a voice.
    “Where are you, Forty-one?”
    “Around the back of the building. One female victim. Suspect as previously reported, a young black male, last seen proceeding east on Bagley Street. Repeat, young black male, proceeding east on Bagley Street. Jeans, gray shirt, black Oakland Raiders baseball hat.”
    “Wait, this is the same suspect as before? Your call from a few minutes ago?”
    “Affirmative. Same suspect.”
    I could just imagine the confusion I was causing, how many partners were turning to look at each other, shaking their heads, but I didn’t have time to worry about it. I was already moving away from the body, back down those stairs, staying to the very edge to preserve the footprints. I went back out the same door I had come in, into the sunlight. Franklin was waiting there on the tracks.
    “She’s on the second-floor balcony,” I said. “Stay here and show them where the door is. I’m going to go find my suspect.”
    “Alex, wait! He’s long gone by now!”
    “Yeah, probably,” I said over my shoulder, “but I’m the only one who saw his face.”
    It was a purely instinctive reaction, to get back to that car, to get behind the wheel, crank that engine, take off out of that parking lot and onto the streets. He had been right there in front of me. I had just missed catching him, and then, when he was standing on the other side of that fence, I had looked right into his eyes. I had my gun drawn. I had aimed it right at his chest, then at the center of his back as he turned to run away. I could have shot him down right then.
    No, don’t go there, I told myself. There’ll be plenty of time to second-guess yourself later.
    I heard the sirens as I pulled out onto the street. I circled the station and hit Bagley Street. How many minutes had passed since he’d come up from the tracks?
    Too many. He could have covered a lot of ground by now. But I needed to give this a shot.
    I tried to put myself in his shoes. Running down this street, a long straightaway. I’m thinking I switch streets as soon as possible. Next intersection is Vermont. To the right is back to the tracks, so left.
    I took the turn. I was heading north now. But now I was heading back close to the station, so another jog to the right, onto Marantette. Dead end at Rosa Parks, jog left, but stay off this main road, so jog right again.
    Now I was in Corktown, the old Irish neighborhood. It felt like a mistake now, as I gunned it down Church Street, lights flashing, siren off, residents out on their porches, watching me go by. A young black man wouldn’t run down this street if he had others to choose from. I slowed down as I came up to Trumbull.
    Then I saw him. Or at least I thought I did. A young man running. The right size, the right jeans and gray shirt. No black hat, but then losing the hat would be the smart play. He was heading north, moving fast. I made the left on Trumbull and tried to keep my eye on him as I came to Michigan Avenue.
    Then I stopped dead at the police barricade.
    The Tigers game had ended. All of the people filing out of the stadium clogged the streets. I picked up my transmitter.
    “Suspect heading north on Trumbull, just past the stadium. Jeans, gray shirt, no black hat now. All units in the area, please respond.”
    The officers working the intersection spotted me and did their best to hold off the crowds for a moment. The barricade was moved and I made my way through. But now I had lost sight of him.
    “Okay,” I said out loud, “you see me